Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(122)

Camila starts sliding shots. “This is the you deserve a thousand standing ovations shot.” She pushes it to me, and my chest swells. “The oh my God, look at that handsome fellow next to you shot.” She passes it to Nikolai. He gives her a look. Camila is the best bartender, an immediate friend. “The thanks for being the best roomie I’ve ever had shot.” Another for me.

“The you’re certifiably insane and could have cracked your fucking head open shot.” That is John. He steals that shot and drinks it before Camila even slides it over.

His cousin is not amused. “You just drank a celebratory shot. That was not for you.” She swats his wrist.

“I’m celebrating the fact that Thora is alive right now. And it’s a fucking miracle if you ask me.”

“Thanks, John,” I say with a smile, and he toasts to that with another shot.

Camila growls in frustration. “You just downed the John Ruiz is a gloomy, pessimistic—”

“Old man,” Timo finishes with a blinding smile. He slings his arm around John’s shoulders. Camila’s lips immediately rise with mine. It’s hard not to smile at the sight of them, both wearing green glow necklaces.

Taken. It’s official.

John acknowledges Timo with the roll of his eyes. “All true except the old man, kid.” He stands up straighter and kisses Timo in hello.

And then Timo nods to me. “Killed it, Thora James!” He squeezes my shoulder and then give his brother a thumbs-up.

Nikolai is having a hard time not smiling too. This may be the first time where we’re all happy together, a good day all around.

I’m about to say thanks to Timo when the chanting suddenly begins. “God of Russia! God of Russia!”

The circle is starting to form right here. At the bar. The people create a semi-open space where Timo, John, me, and Nikolai reside.

John groans. “This is my stool.” He points at the one he always sits at. “This stupidity can’t happen at my fucking stool.”

“You love it, John,” Camila retorts. “And technically this is happening at my bar. And I say, proceed.” She waves Nikolai on, who’s watching me, waiting for me. He takes a couple steps into the middle of the semi-circle, and he begins to unbutton his black shirt.

People holler, excited that his after-show is finally beginning.

I prepared for this tonight, even going as far to wear spandex shorts underneath my aquamarine dress. Maybe he realizes this. Don’t back down now.

I won’t.

I don’t want to.

I grip the bar behind me, my back digging into it, and then I raise my hand, our eyes never drifting apart. I say, “Choose me.”

His lips rise, and the girls let out a series of awwwws. He removes his shirt fully, his body chiseled, sculpted—familiar.

He reaches me, lifting me onto the bar so that our lips are parallel. My heart hammers, my pulse throbbing.

A breath away, he whispers, “Every day.”

The hot kiss burns my skin, and I accidentally knock over one of the celebratory shots.

Every day, he chooses me. It rings in my ears.

When he parts, he turns to the crowd and tells them exactly what we’ll be doing. A one-handed handstand competition. I watch him climb onto the bar, standing, towering above us all. And extends his arm, for me to take his hand.

I do, and he pulls me swiftly to my feet.

His gaze flies across my features. “Your eyes are black.”

“They’re always like that…” I lose my thoughts at the devilish smile he wears, the red strobe lights bathing us in the hue.

“You’re ready,” he states, reading me well.

I nod.

And we split apart. We’re doing this on the bar. For the entire club to see. The crowd—it’s larger than ever before, pushing up to the lip of the bar, and John still has his stool, Timo next to him.

You can do this, Thora James.

“On the count of three,” Nikolai calls out.

“One!” the club yells.

“Two!”

I inhale.

“Three!”

And I place my hand on the sticky bar, my legs broken apart at first, but when I find my balance, I put them together. Straight, like a board. I glance over, and notice Nikolai in the same position.

Don’t fall.

There’s nothing that says I can’t beat him. The cheers from the crowd jumble together, but I hear my name, from multiple, indistinguishable voices.

“Thora! Thora!”

What?

My eyes flicker to Nik again. And even upside-down, his curved lips are unmistakable. Very rarely does anyone root against the God of Russia. And he’s happy. Really happy that they are.

“Thora! Thora!”

I shut my eyes, concentrating, smiling, unable to stop my pulse from speeding. My muscles ache, pull and stretch, but I ignore the pain. Mentally sound, I stay at peace, motionless and still.

Thirty minutes pass and my eyes snap open at the gasps and “Ohhhhhs!”

I turn my head.

Nikolai dropped.

No way.

He sits on the bar, his forehead beaded with sweat. Looking shocked, he shakes his head over and over. I bet he’d already picked out a place to pierce me. When he sees me as I sit next to him, he lets out a short, humored laugh. “You’re beaming!” The crowds are so noisy that I barely distinguish the words.